<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>i'll just hold you for a while by kickedshins</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25104307">i'll just hold you for a while</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/kickedshins/pseuds/kickedshins'>kickedshins</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Wolf 359 (Radio)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Domestic, Established Relationship, F/F, Fluff, Post-Canon, Slice of Life, the magic of babka french toast</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 06:54:16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,102</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25104307</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/kickedshins/pseuds/kickedshins</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>As she sits, watching Lovelace talk about something or nothing or anything at all, hands waving, the scars on her face illuminated by the lights of the shop, Minkowski falls in love all over again. She supposes it’s apt, because they’re beginning a new year, and the cycle is resetting. There’s a poetry to it, sure, but she realizes that she cares less about the literary ramifications of it all, and more about the simple fact that she loves Isabel Lovelace. It’s easy and comforting and finds a home between her ribs, and it’s nothing new, but it’ll forever be special.</p><p>or</p><p>It's New Year's Eve a year after the Urania lands back on earth.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Isabel Lovelace/Renée Minkowski</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>34</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>i'll just hold you for a while</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>just some very unedited minlace fluff that i wrote at 2am :p not my best work but i think its cute</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Minkowski has gotten used to waking up last, and to waking up alone. Lovelace doesn’t sleep much, if at all, but she still lies with Minkowski in bed until the sun rises. After that, though, it’s pretty much free game. Minkowski can’t really get mad at the fact that she can wake up starfished across the bed every day and her girlfriend won’t complain about it, though. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Today, Minkowski rises at around seven. It’s a cold December morning, and the heater is half on the fritz, half off of it. She blinks sleep from her eyes and says, “Isabel, get your ass back in here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m cooking!” comes Lovelace’s voice from the kitchen.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This early?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Making you breakfast,” Lovelace explains. “Didn’t sleep last night, so I thought I’d get a move on ASAP and do something nice for you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Regular reasons, or—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, just regular reasons. As regular as being an alien is going to get, at least.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Minkowski entertains the idea of passing out again, but she probably shouldn’t. It’s New Year’s Eve, and they’re hosting, and she should get herself up and ready and decorating. It’s not that having three people over is particularly high-maintenance, but Minkowski loves to go all-out for holidays, and even though both Christmas and Doug’s birthday were just a few days ago, tomorrow is no exception.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She pulls herself from under the warm covers with a groan, wincing as her bare feet hit the ground. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Cold</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” she says, and in the near distance, she can hear Lovelace laughing at her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s kind of nice to not wake up in Lovelace’s arms, honestly. Minkowski spent too long sleeping with straps holding her to the bed, making sure that she wouldn’t drift away in her sleep, and it’s freeing to have a bit of space to herself. She likes to fall asleep being held by Lovelace, safe against her chest, safe tucked between her neck and her shoulder, but she likes to wake up free. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Should I shower now, or wait for you to finish breakfast?” she asks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You can shower now. It’ll be a bit.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The water is hot against Minkowski’s neck, her hair pulled up to avoid the spray. It’s longer now, long enough that she can stick it into a bun. She’d cut it short last spring, and she’d buzzed Lovelace’s, too. Lovelace has kept hers cropped close to her head. Minkowski’s letting it grow, though. She misses ponytails, ridiculously enough. Then again, she hasn’t had a proper one in gravity in a few years, so she’s open to the possibility that she might change her mind and cut it all off again very soon.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s been a year since they landed, and she still hasn’t gotten comfortable enough to sing in the shower. She will at some point, she hopes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s not that she’s afraid of Lovelace’s judgment, or anything. Lovelace has seen her at her absolute worst, bloodied and half-dead, and Lovelace has seen her angry-drunk and red-eyed. Lovelace has seen her just steps away from losing her humanity. Lovelace has seen her through it all. So, no, it’s not that Minkowski thinks Lovelace is going to break up with her for a bit of show tunes in the shower, or something. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s just that she’s kind of insecure about her singing voice. She doesn’t tend to break it out when she’s sober. She never exactly got a lead role in any of the shows in high school, and she’s pretty sure Lovelace doesn’t need to hear Chorus Girl Number Seven’s rendition of </span>
  <em>
    <span>I Dreamed a Dream </span>
  </em>
  <span>at seven in the morning. She’ll save that for late nights when she’s home alone, when Lovelace is caught up in one of her rotating arrays of odd jobs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The steam hits the plastic of the inner shower curtain and beads there, hot air against a cold surface. Fucking broken heater. Minkowski traces patterns into the condensation: swirls, stars, symbols. None of it means anything, really, but it’s nice. Therapeutic. It calms her down and lets her escape the rigidity of her own mind for just a minute.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her therapist (because she goes to a therapist now, which is relatively new, and is relatively helpful) says that she’s a bit high-strung. Except she usually says it using a lot more words and implying that Minkowski needs an OCD diagnosis, which, fair, she probably does. Still, if Minkowski learned anything from living with Eiffel for years, it’s how to oversimplify a complicated situation, so she sticks with </span>
  <em>
    <span>high-strung</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And, yes, she is high-strung, but mornings like this help her forget that. Mornings like this let her lose herself in the steam of the shower, in Lovelace’s hum as she cooks breakfast, in a Brooklyn brownstone with a half-broken heater and a relatively terrible view and a bed that lets Minkowski be protected and lets her be free.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Minkowski pulls on athletic shorts and a soft tee and makes her way to the kitchen. Lovelace is finishing up there, bowls scattered around, ingredients littering the table. She cooks like a tornado, messy and wild, but her food is always amazing. Minkowski wishes she could do that. She’s resigned to half-decent stress baking that Lovelace always says tastes really good even when Minkowski knows that it’s average.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What have you made for me today?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Babka french toast bake!” Lovelace says, presenting a casserole dish. “Make sure you spoon to the bottom. The bottom is the best part. It’s all custardy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can we eat it out of this pan?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m pretty sure we legally </span>
  <em>
    <span>have </span>
  </em>
  <span>to eat it out of this pan,” Lovelace replies. She whips out two spoons, and Minkowski plucks one of them from her fingers. “Dig in.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s delicious. Chocolate, bread, sugary egg custard, and just the right amount of cinnamon. “You,” Minkowski tells her around a mouthful of babka, “are a genius, Isabel.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I found a recipe on Epicurious.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But did you follow that recipe?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lovelace says, “No,” and laughs. “You know me too well, Minnie.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Minkowski responds to that by pressing a kiss to the corner of Lovelace’s mouth. “Don’t think making me breakfast gets you out of your helper duties for today,” she says sternly. “I need you on dinner, as well as running a few extraneous, non-food-related errands.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t worry,” Lovelace assures her. “I know.” She hops atop the kitchen counter, sitting with her legs swinging off the end of it, babka still in hand. “Want more?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course I do.” Minkowski steps between Lovelace’s legs and spoons more french toast bake into her mouth. “Jesus, this is amazing. You really need to teach me to cook sometime.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“One day you’ll rid yourself of recipes,” Lovelace assures her. “I promise you, unless they’re of the family variety, they do nothing but hold you back. They’re… they’re guidelines, sure, but nothing more. You can look at them to get a sense of the ingredients you might need, and perhaps for a few measurements, but really, the best cooking is done by gut feeling.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I have a psychiatrist appointment in a few weeks where I’m likely going to get diagnosed with obsessive-compulsive disorder. What about that says I could ever learn how to cook from my gut?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lovelace shrugs. “I have faith in you. If you want to learn, you can learn. You can do anything if you put your mind to it. And, yes, that’s hokey bullshit, but I mean you, specifically, Renée. You’re a pretty amazing person.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Minkowski feels her face heat up. Lovelace’s compliments will never not feel like the first time. They take Minkowski back to the Hephaestus, back to mutual respect and mutual dislike and a struggle for power, and, underneath it all, a deep desire to be seen. They fill Minkowski with the same warmth of hearing Lovelace laugh at a joke for the first time, of seeing her eyes light up when she looked into space. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As awful of a place as it was, there’s something about the infinite cosmos that filled them all with a sense of wonder. It’s not about feeling infinitesimal, or about realizing their place in the universe, or anything as depressing as that. It’s about opportunity and wonder, about openness. Freedom. That’s what they all wanted, wasn’t it? Freedom? A place to prove themselves, a place where they didn’t have to worry so much about the impositions of others?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The North Star shines in Lovelace’s eyes now, a blinding light. A spark of life.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thanks,” Minkowski says. “You could make a formidable baker, you know, if you did the opposite. If you followed recipes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I made this, didn’t I? That was baking.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I mean proper baking,” Minkowski explains. “It’s a science, you know? There’s all these rules to it, and I’m not amazing at it, but I can do it passably. You could, too.”</span>
</p><p><span>“Sure, I don’t doubt I could, but I don’t know if I want to. You have the market pretty much cornered in this household on that front. I don’t need to impose.”</span><span><br/></span> <span>“You just don’t want to think about the fact that I’d probably be better at it than you,” Minkowski taunts, smirking.</span></p><p>
  <span>Lovelace sets the dish of french toast bake on the counter next to her and interlocks her ankles behind Minkowski’s back and pulls her in close. “You’re baiting me this early in the morning?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And you’re falling for it,” Minkowski replies. “You know the worm is attached to a hook, but you’re gunning for the worm regardle—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She’s cut off by Lovelace’s kiss. It’s an easy thing, comforting. A Sunday morning between her tongue and teeth. A hand travels its way up Minkowski’s arm, resting on her shoulder, solid and grounding, and Minkowski breathes in a feeling of belonging.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Minkowski pulls back. “Baited,” she says, grinning.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Gladly and willingly so,” Lovelace tells her, unashamed. “Want more babka? Want to make out? Want me to shut up and get my ass into gear and start getting ready for the little party we’re having tonight?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, you’re not a teenager so don’t say make out but yes, and yes. In that order, probably, because as much as I love kissing you—and I do, I really do—I love babka french toast more, and I’m hungry.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I could feed it to you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re impossible,” Minkowski says, laughing. She leans over to take another bite of the bake. It’s warm and it almost melts in her mouth, coating her tongue with chocolate.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What else are you going to need me to do for you today? I’m yours to boss around, Commander.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Minkowski gives her a look. “Ranks and titles, Isabel.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s just so easy,” Lovelace says. “So, so easy. But, okay. I’m yours to boss around, Minnie. I know I’m handling dinner, of course, and thanks again for letting me cook instead of just ordering in food.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“As long as you’re the one cleaning the kitchen, you can wreak as much havoc as you want to upon it. And I’m going to need you to stop by CVS, too, just to grab a few things for decorations. Also, party hats, because I forgot to pick those up.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Party hats?” Lovelace sounds mildly incredulous, as if she hasn’t sat through everyone’s birthday celebrations, at which the party hats were out in full force.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Party hats,” Minkowski confirms. “I’ll text you if there’s anything else that I need if I remember between now and then. Sound good?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sounds great,” Lovelace says, giving her a thumbs up. “You know, I haven’t had a New Year’s kiss in… what, seven years? Eight, maybe? I can’t remember the last time I had one before I went to space, so, honestly, it could be ten years, even.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I haven’t in a while, either,” Minkowski confesses.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What about the whole husband factor?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We were both away a lot, and it just so happened that for the few years before my mission, either one or both of us wasn’t home for New Year’s. So, no, I haven’t had one in a while, also.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It goes without saying that you’re going to be mine,” Lovelace tells her. “Just confirming. In case there was any confusion there.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Pretty sure there wasn’t,” Minkowski says, smiling. “I’m glad to be your kiss.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lovelace pecks her on the cheek and hops off the counter. “I’m going to go change my clothes now. I got some custard on them. Try not to get too insane about decorating in the minute that I’m gone, okay?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll do my best, but no promises.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With Lovelace in the bedroom, Minkowski goes over to the window and pushes it open. A gust of wintery air slaps her in the face, and she feels so very alive. She’s made it a year on Earth. She’ll make it years more.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She smiles into the frigid air. Her teeth ache in the cold, and she starts to shiver, just a bit, because a thin T-shirt is not great protection against the weather, but it’s worth it. The day is starting. The year is ending. The world keeps spinning, and Minkowski, affixed to its surface, keeps on spinning, too. She won’t let herself get blown away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Minkowski feels two hands brush past her sides, feels two arms snake their way around her. “Hey,” Lovelace murmurs into her ear. “You’re going to catch pneumonia and die.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not as romantic as what I was expecting,” Minkowski admits.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you okay?” Lovelace asks, concerned. “You’re shaking.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh,” Minkowski says. “I honestly didn’t notice. I was caught up in my thoughts, I guess. I’m alright, though. I’m not so cold.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lovelace spins Minkowski around to face her. She leans past Minkowski and slams the window shut before straightening out. “Does your party prep schedule allow for a few minutes to warm up with me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think I can swing that,” Minkowski says. “But, really, I’m not that cold, and I’ll warm up in a second.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Cool. I still want to cuddle with you, though,” Lovelace replies. She takes Minkowski’s hand and starts pulling her back towards the bedroom. “If you think you need to, you can set an alarm on your phone for fifteen minutes so that even if you end up falling asleep, you won’t miss too much time.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Minkowski does just that before climbing into bed. Lovelace follows suit, pulling Minkowski against her body and dotting kisses along her jaw.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Feeling warmer yet?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Very much, thank you,” Minkowski says. She presses a quick kiss to the tip of Lovelace’s nose before turning so that she’s slotted with her back against Lovelace’s chest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll just hold you for a while.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’d love nothing more,” Minkowski says. And it’s the truth, and she’s so glad that it can be her reality, too.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She drifts back to sleep to the steady drone of Isabel Lovelace’s breathing, and when she wakes an hour later, alarm surreptitiously aborted by her girlfriend, she’s too in love to even be mad.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’re going to need to work fast if you still want to go out for lunch, though,” Minkowski warns her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wanna go to that new ramen place nearby? Great for a cold day.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sounds amazing,” Minkowski says. “Come help me hang up these now, and we’ll talk lunch in a bit.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They get everything done quickly. By one, the house is decked out in silvers and blues, in sparkles and streamers. “After lunch, you can cook, and I can clean,” Minkowski says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You know, they’re not going to die if they see a bit of a mess. They’ve all been here a bunch of times before.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, but we’re still hostesses. We have to present a good front.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lovelace shrugs. “I know it’s fruitless to argue with you on this point. Sure thing. You excited to make fun of the idiots down at Times Square?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I always thought that might be kind of… fun?” Minkowski admits.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lovelace gasps. “Renée. Renée, you did not just say that to me. To </span>
  <em>
    <span>me</span>
  </em>
  <span>. A native New Yorker.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You can tell me how wrong I am over ramen,” Minkowski says. She gets her coat and scarf and hat and wraps herself up before handing Lovelace her own layers. “Do you have the keys? And your wallet?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Pocket and pocket,” Lovelace says, patting each in turn. “C’mon. Let’s go.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The walk to the ramen place is spent bickering about the ball drop. Lovelace insists that it’s absolutely ridiculous, that it’s a cesspool of disease and vomit, that no amount of money in the universe could get her to be within twenty blocks of Times Square on New Year’s Eve. And Minkowski concedes that she understands where Lovelace is coming from, especially as a New Yorker, but that the part of her that loves whimsey loves the ball drop, too.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’re watching it tonight, though,” Minkowski says, holding the door open.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lovelace makes a show of thanking her as she walks through. “Of course we are. Just because I’d never want to be there doesn’t mean I don’t want to watch it drop. Oh, let’s snag a booth.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They settle in and shed their layers and order. It doesn’t take long for their food to arrive. Over bowls of ramen, they discuss new years resolutions, debating if they’re inherently doomed to fail.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lovelace gets this glint in her eye when she argues, this hardness and excitement. A flintstone ready to spark flame. Minkowski wants nothing more than to feel its heat. So she picks a new topic and picks a bit of a fight, and she waits for Lovelace to warm her with her words.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As she sits, watching Lovelace talk about something or nothing or anything at all, hands waving, the scars on her face illuminated by the lights of the shop, Minkowski falls in love all over again. She supposes it’s apt, because they’re beginning a new year, and the cycle is resetting. There’s a poetry to it, sure, but she realizes that she cares less about the literary ramifications of it all, and more about the simple fact that she loves Isabel Lovelace. It’s easy and comforting and finds a home between her ribs, and it’s nothing new, but it’ll forever be special.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I love you,” she says, because she can.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lovelace gives her a grin, a self-sure and cocky thing. “I know you do,” she replies. But after a second, her face softens, and she reaches across the table to take Minkowski’s hand in hers. “I love you, too,” she says. She smiles, tilts her head, squeezes Minkowski’s fingers. “Now, c’mon. Let’s get going. I have some cooking to do.”</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>thanks for reading! kudos/comments always appreciated. i might make a chapter two at some point where i actually write the new years party. come tell me if you want that or not or talk about renee OCD minkowski with me (if i projected onto her with that i didn't because i did no i didn't &lt;3) @ commaperson on twitter!</p></blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>